
Class^?- 
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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




[See p. 66 



WATCHING THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL 





POEMS FOR 
YOUNG AMERICANS i 

FROM 

WILL CARLETON 



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ILLUSTRATED 




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HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

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LIBRARY of CONGRESS 

Two Copies Received 

OCT 11 1906 

CLASS A XXC, No. 
CdPY B. 



Copyright, 1906, by Harper & Brothers. 
All rights reserved. 

Published October, 1906. 






PUBLISHER'S NOTE 

This book presents to American children the 
first collection which has been made of those 
verses of Will Carleton that are peculiarly adapted 
to younger readers. The wide popularity of his 
poems with all ages, young and old, and with all 
classes, has frequently brought to him and his 
publishers, among other suggestions, a plea for 
a volume of verse designed particularly for boys 
and girls. For this there are evident reasons. 
These poems touch the heart and reach universal 
sympathies. They are typically American, pict- 
uring the joys of out-door life and sport, com- 
memorating historic anniversaries which are of 
so much importance in our school life, sketching 
scenes from American history, suggesting lessons 
in pluck and heroism, affording serious memorial 
verse for readings and recitations and delightfully 
humorous tales in rhyme. This is verse which 
children will understand and like. The patriotic 
motive which rings true in these poems, and the 
tributes to the great figures of American history, 
embody the kind of influence that parents and 
teachers seek for American boys and girls. 



CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTORY POEM 

PAGE 

The March of the Children v 

PART I 
POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Coasting Down the Hill 3 

The Boy in the Mow 5 

Fight it Out! 7 

"Flash": the Fireman's Story 9 

The Serpent of the Still 14 

Arbutus ... 16 

Song — Westerland « . . 17 

The Laboring Men « . . 19 

Up the Line 24 

The Little Black-Eyed Rebel 26 

The Ride of Jennie M'Neal 30 

The Prize of the Margaretta 36 

At the Summit of the Washington Monument . 40 

PART II 
POEMS OF FESTIVALS AND ANNIVERSARIES 

The Queen of the Days 47 

What Shall We Give ? 49 



vi CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Christmas-Tide 51 

The Christmas-Tree 53 

Hymn of Thanksgiving 55 

"Mending the Old Flag" . . 57 

Song — Language of the Flag 59 

Our Guests Unseen ,..*.. 61 

Our Army of the Dead ......... 67 

Festivals of the Nation 70 

Washington-Month 72 

Rhymes to the Day 73 

PART III 

HUMOROUS VERSE 

The Two Boys 81 

The Oarsman's Story 83 

From Cornfield to River 88 

Always a "Kick" . . . 93 

Farmer Stebbins at Football 95 

Farmer Stebbins Awheel 100 

Farmer Stebbins on Rollers . 105 

Farmer Stebbins at Ocean Grove. . . , . 112 

Farmer Stebbins at the Bat 118 

Farmer Stebbins Toboggans ...... 124 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



/ 



WATCHING THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL . 
"WITH A MILE OF ROAD BEFORE US LIKE A 



Frontispiece 



POLISHED BLADE AGLEAM ' Facing p. 4 



/ 



"he twines about her trembling life". 

westerland 

"with sun trod faces and horn-gloved 

hands" 

FROM THE MONUMENT 

THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS 

"THE SWEET, LOVE - PLANTED CHRISTMAS- 

tree" 

"they mended away through the summer 

day" 

"we must not forget" 

"of heroes that camp on the unseen 

shore" 

GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON 

"when all to once the wheels" . . - 
"we voted that we'd had enough" . . 
"produced an unforseen result" . . . 
"with sober face, but eyes upon the 
broadest kind of grin " 



14 
16 

20 
42 
50 

54 

58 
62 

66 

72 - 
108 
114 
120 

128 



THE MARCH OF THE CHILDREN 

List to the sound of the drumming! 
Cayly the children are coming; 
Sweet as the smile of a fairy, 
Fresh as the blossoms they carry. 
Pride of the parents who love them, 
Pure as the azure above them, 
Free as the winds that caress them, 
Bright as the sunbeams that bless them. 

List to the voice-echoes ringing! 
Sweeter than birds they are singing; 
Thoughts that to virtue invite them, 
Wed unto airs that delight tliem. 
Truths that tlieir future will cherish, 
Soul-planted, never to perish! 
Only to senses completer, 
Heaven's choicest music were sweeter! 

Virtue, unconscious and pretty, 
Walks through the streets of the city; 



See the gay bannerets flying, 
Mottoes and titles undying; 
Truths dearly hallowed and olden. 
Braided in strands that are golden; 
Words for the spirit's desiring, 
Sentences sweetly inspiring! 

Wlien, in a voice of caressing, 
Chr: tlie children His blessing, 

'Twos not for erne generation — 
But for each epoch and nation. 
So through the present it lingers, 
Shed from His bountiful fingers; 
So unto these it is given — 
Types of the angels in fieaven. 



PART I 

POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 




POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 



COASTING DOWN THE HILL 

There's a glory in the speeding of a horse the 

nerves can feel, 
Or the swift and silent magic of a pedal-hastened 

wheel, 
Or the rushing and the foaming that the flying 

yachts possess, 
Or in clinging to €he pilot of a limited express; 
But there's naught to stir the senses, and there's 

nothing ever will, 
Like the starry winter evenings when we coasted 

down the hill — 

Down the long and slippery hill — 
Down the steep and glaring hill — 
With the clinging, and the shrieking, and the 

laughing hoarse and shrill! 

Far above the pallid valley hung the moon, so safe 

and high — 
Like a ball of ice it glittered in a frozen sea of sky ; 



4 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

And the trees were dressed in silver, and the bushes 

stood aglow, 
And a million jewels nestled on the bosom of the 

snow. 
But the eyes that we were watching, they were 

beaming brighter still, 
As we packed, our load together to go coasting 

down the hill — 

Down the snowy, icy hill — 
Down the long and dizzy hill — 
With the shouting, and the calling, and the danger 

of a "spill "! 

With a mile of road before us like a polished blade 

agleam, 
On the ready track we started, in a short, delicious 

dream ; 
Through the fences, past the bridges, over "thank- 

ye-ma'ams" to spare, 
Leaping from them like a panther, in the crisp and 

biting air; 
Past the still and lonely school -house and the 

frost-enfettered mill, 
Thinking naught about the stopping — with a 

laugh at every ill — 

Down the ne'er- forgotten hill — 
Down the white and gleaming hill — 
Just a streak of human lightning, we went flash- 
ing down the hill! 



a 
% 

o 





THE BOY IN THE MOW 

There glides through the barn's mammoth door 

A sweet-scented hill-top of hay; 
An athlete, with strength bubbling o'er, 

Now flings it in forkfuls away. 
Another is stowing it back, 

With white pearls of toil on his brow; 
And, treading the hay in his track, 

Looms faintly the boy in the mow. 

Through crevices often can he 

View, past the old barn- wall of brown , 
A river that leads to the sea, 

A railway that drives to the town. 
"Oh, when shall my fortune make hay, 

In yon fields of splendor, and how? 
'Twill wait for full many a day: 

I'm only a boy in the mow." 



A cloud, like a flag from the sky, 
Is splendidly spread and unrolled; 



POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

The sun reaches down from on high 
To fringe it with silver and gold. 

4 'Oh, when will Heaven's mercy my name 
As bright as those colors allow? 

But earth has no glory or fame 
To waste on a boy in a mow." 

A cloud in the west, like a pall, 

Creeps upward and hangs in the light; 
It carries a gloom over all, 

It looks like a part of the night. 
With clamor the thunder-bolts swarm, 

And trees bend in agony, now; 
"'Tis thus, too, that poverty's storm 

Hangs over the boy in the mow." 



The clouds have flown into a dream, 

The birds are discoursing in glee, 
The smile of the sun is agleam 

On river and hill-top and tree. 
Look up to the Heavens, little lad, 

And then to your earth-duties bow; 
And some day both worlds may be glad. 

To honor the boy from the mow! 




FIGHT IT OUT! 

Does destruction seem to lurk 

All about? 
Don't believe it! Go to work! 

Fight it out! 
Danger often turns and flies 
From a steady pair of eyes; 
Ruin always camps apart 
From an undefeated heart. 
In the spirit there is much — 

Do not doubt — 
That the world can never touch: 

Fight it out! 

Do the portals of your brain 

Freedom lack? 
Never let them thus remain: 

Push them back! 
Do not give the efforts o'er, 
If they number half a score ; 
When a hundred of them fail, 
Then a thousand might prevail. 



POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Germs beneath a clod must lie 

Ere they sprout; 
You may blossom, by-and-by: 

Fight it out! 

Have your foemen come to stay? 

Never flinch; 
Make them win their little way, 

Inch by inch. 
Scan them well, and fight them fair, 
Give them honest blows to spare; 
There are meaner things possessed 
Than a first-class second-best. 
Time may come when you have turned 

To a rout 
Every triumph they have earned: 

Fight it out! 

All the lessons of the time 

Teach us fair, 
'Tis a blunder and a crime 

To despair. 
When we suffer, 'tis to bless 
Other moments with success; 
From our losses, we may trace 
Something better in their place. 
Everything in earth and sky 

Seems to shout, 
" Don't give up until you die; 

Fight it out!" 




"FLASH": THE FIREMAN'S STORY 

" Flash" was a white-foot sorrel, an' run on Number 

Three : 
Not much stable manners — an average horse to see ; 
Notional in his methods — strong in loves an' hates; 
Not very much respected, or popular 'mongst his 

mates. 

Dull an* moody an' sleepy, an' "off" on quiet days; 
Full o' turbulent, sour looks, an' small sarcastic 

ways ; 
Scowled an' bit at his partner, an' banged the stable 

floor — 
With other means intended to designate life a bore. 



But when, be't day or night time, he heard the 

alarm-bell ring, 
He'd rush for his place in the harness with a regular 

tiger spring; 
An' watch, with nervous shivers, the clasp of buckle 

an' band, 
Until 'twas plainly evident he'd like to lend a hand. 



io POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

An' when the word was given, away he would rush 

an' tear, 
As if a thousand witches was rumplin' up his 

hair, 
An' craze the other horses with his magnetic charm, 
Till every hoof -beat sounded a regular fire-alarm! 

Never a horse a jockey would notice an* admire 
Like Flash in front of his engine a-runnin' to a 

fire; 
Never a horse so lazy, so dawdlin', an' so slack, 
As Flash upon his return trip, a-drawin' the engine 

back. 

Now, when the different horses gets tender-footed 

an 1 old, 
They're no use in our business; so Flash was 

finally sold 
To quite a respectable milkman, who found it not 

so fine 
A-bossin' one o' God's creatures outside its natural 

line. 

Seems as if I could see Flash a-mopin' along here 
now, 

Feelin' that he was simply assistant to a cow; 

But sometimes he'd imagine he heard the alarm- 
bell's din, 

An' jump an' rear for a season before they could 
hold him in; 



"FLASH": THE FIREMAN'S STORY n 

An' once, in spite o' his master, he strolled in 
'mongst us chaps, 

To talk with the other horses, of former fires, per- 
haps ; 

Whereat the milkman kicked him; whereat, us 
boys to please, 

He begged that horsed pardon upon his bended 
knees. 

But one day, for a big fire as we was makin* a 

dash, 
Both o y the horses we had on somewhat resemblin' 

Flash, 
Yellin , an* ringin' an' rushin', with excellent voice 

an' heart, 
We passed the poor old fellow, a-tuggin' away at 

his cart. 

If ever I see an* old hoss grow upward into a new — 
If ever I see a milkman whose traps behind him 

flew, 
'Twas that old hoss, a-rearin' an* racin' down the 

track, 
An' that respectable milkman a-tryin' to hold him 

back. 

Away he rushed like a cyclone for the head o' 

"Number Three," 
Gained the lead, an' kept it, an' steered his journey 

free; 



12 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Dodgin' wagons an' horses, an' still on the keenest 
11 silk," 

An* furnishin' all that neighborhood with good, re- 
spectable milk. 

Crowd a-yellm' an' running an' vainly hollerin' 

"Whoa!" 
Milkman bracin' an* sawin', with never a bit o' 

show; 
Firemen laughin' an* chucklin , > an' shout in* "Good! 

go in!" 
Hoss a-gettin' down to it, an' sweepin' along like 

sin. 

Finally came where the fire was — halted with a 
"thud"; 

Sent the respectable milkman heels over head in 

mud; 
Watched till he see the engines properly workin' 

there, 
After which he relinquished all interest in the 

affair. 

Moped an' wilted an' dawdled, "faded away" once 

more, 
Took up his old occupation — considerin' life a 

bore; 
Laid down in his harness, an* — sorry I am to say — 
The milkman he had drawn there took his dead 

body away. 



FLASH": THE FIREMAN'S STORY 



I 3 



That's the whole o' my story: I've seen, more'n 
once or twice, 

That poor dead animals' actions is full o' human 
advice ; 

An' if you ask what Flash taught, I'll simply 
answer, then, 

That poor old horse was a symbol of some intelli- 
gent men. 




THE SERPENT OF THE STILL 

The tempter, as God's legends tell — 

Allowed on earth to roam — 
Crushed that which Woman loves so well, 

Her sweet and sacred home. 
From Eden, lost through his black art, 

She wandered out forlorn; 
She cursed him in her gentle heart 

With meek but deadly scorn. 
And since, in varied guise of sin, 

He works his hateful will, 
And reappears to-day within 

The serpent of the still. 

He comes not now in subtle mood — 

With smiles, as long ago — 
Enticing her by honeyed food, 

And mysteries she may know; 
He makes insulting, swift advance 

Into her bright home-nest, 
Admitted and embraced, perchance, 

By those she loves the best. 




HE TWINES ABOUT HER TREMBLING LIFE 



THE SERPENT OF THE STILL 15 

He brings the world where he must dwell, 

Her days and nights to fill, 
Transmuting Paradise to Hell — 

This serpent of the still! 

He twines about her trembling life, 

And soils it with his slime; 
He fills the hours with foolish strife, 

He sows the seeds of crime. 
And Poverty and fierce Disease, 

And Hunger and Disgrace, 
And Death by death-empanged degrees, 

Are in his cold embrace; 
To grieve, to hurt, to rend, to smite, 

To ruin and to kill, 
Are leaden links of his delight — 

The serpent of the still! 

Rouse, woman, in your quiet power, 

Your heart's man- withering frown, 
Your hand that rules the festal hour, 

And crush the monster down! 
You shape the human form and soul, 

You mark the infant's way, 
Youth's fancy you can oft control, 

Man's actions you can sway: 
Bend every blessing of your life 

To fight its deadliest ill! 
Strike — daughter, maiden, widow, wife — 

This serpent of the still! 




ARBUTUS 

Under the snow, under the snow, 
The leaves of the trailing arbutus grow; 
Toiling, the earth that loves them nigh, 
But hoping to some day see the sky. 



Under the snow, under the snow, 
The flowers of the trailing arbutus grow; 
E'en in the dark their duty done, 
But hoping to some day kiss the sun. 




WESTERLAND 





SONG— WESTERLAND 

Between the oceans deep and wide, 

Westerland, O Westerland, 
Are many nations side by side, 

Westerland, O Westerland! 
The waves that greet thy rocky shore, 
And tell thy triumphs o'er and o'er, 
Say thou shalt live forevermore, 
Westerland, O Westerland! 

From many mountains, broad and high, 

Westerland, O Westerland, 
Thy face is lifted towards the sky, 

Westerland, O Westerland! 
The storms that leap from hill to hill, 
The lightning-bolts that dart and thrill, 
But make thy people stronger still, 
Westerland, O Westerland! 

From prairies rich and golden mines, 
Westerland, O Westerland, 

Thy wealth in constant splendor shines, 
Westerland, O Westerland' 



18 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

The wealth that God has given to thee, 
That thou a power for good might be, 
And teach the nations to be free, 
Westerland, O Westerland! 



May all thy ways be just and pure, 

Westerland, O Westerland! 
That thou through ages mayest endure, 

Westerland, O Westerland! 
Till, emblem of the free and brave, 
O'er Tyranny's dishonored grave, 
Thy flag around the world shall wave, 
Westerland O Westerland! 




THE LABORING MEN 

Who are the laboring men? 

We are the laboring men: 
We, the muscle of tribes and lands, 
With sun-trod faces and horn-gloved hands; 
With well-patched garments, stained and coarse- 
With untrained voices, heavy and hoarse; 
Who brave the death of the noontide heats — 
Who mow the meadows and pave the streets; 
Who push the plough by the smooth-faced sod, 
Or climb the crags with a well-filled hod. 

Yes — we are the laboring men — 

The genuine laboring men! 
And each, somewhere in the stormy sky, 
Has a sweet love-star, be it low or high; 
For pride have we to do and dare, 
And heart have we — to cherish and care; 
And power have we: for lose our brawn, 
And where were your flourishing cities gone? 



2 o POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Or bind our hands or fetter our feet, 

And what would the gaunt world find to eat? 

Ay, where were your gentry then? 

For we are the laboring men! 

Who are the laboring men? 

We are the laboring men: 
We who stand in the ranks of trade, 
And count the tallies that toil has made; 
Who guard the coffers of wealth untold, 
And ford the streams of glistening gold; 
Who send the train in its breathless trips, 
And rear the buildings, and sail the ships; 
And though our coats be a trifle fine, 
And though our diamonds flash and shine, 

Yet we are the laboring men — 

The genuine laboring men! 
We bolt the gates of the angry seas; 
We keep the nation's granary keys; 
The routes of trade we have built and planned 
Are veins of life to a hungry land. 
And power have we in our peaceful strife: 
For a nation's trade is a nation's life; 
And take the sails of our commerce in, 
Where were your "artisans' pails of tin"? 

Ay, where were your "laborers" then? 

For we are the laboring men! 

Who are the laboring men? 
We are the laboring men: 




; WITH SUN TROD FACES AND HORN-GLOVED HANDS 



THE LABORING MEN 21 

We of the iron and water way, 
Whom fire and steam, and tide obey; 
Who stab the sea with a prow of oak — 
Who blot the sky with a cloud of smoke; 
Who bend the breezes unto our wills, 
And feed the looms and hurry the mills; 
Who oft have the lives of a thousand known, 
In the hissing valves that held our own! 

Yes, we are the laboring men — 

The genuine laboring men! 
And though a coat may a button lack, 
And though a face be sooty and black, 
And though the words be heavy of flow, 
And new-called thoughts come tardy and slow, 
And though rough words in a speech may blend, 
A heart's a heart, and a friend's a friend! 
And power have we: but for our skill, 
The wave would drown, and the sea would kill; 

And where were your gentry then? 

Ay, we are the laboring men! 



Who are the laboring men? 

We are the laboring men: 

We of the mental toil and strain, 

Who stall the body and lash the brain; 

Who wield our pen when the world's asleep, 

And plead with mortals to laugh or weep; 

Who bind the wound and plead the cause, 

Who preach the sermons and make the laws; 
3 



22 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Who man the stage for the listening throng, 
And fight the devils of Shame and Wrong. 
Yes, we are the laboring men — 
The genuine laboring men! 
And though our hands be small and white, 
And though our flesh be tender and light, 
And though our muscle be soft and low, 
Our red-blood sluices are swift of flow! 
We've power to kindle Passion's fire 
With the flame of rage and fell desire; 
Or quell, with soothing words and arts, 
To throbs of grief, the leaping hearts. 
And who shall question, then, 
That we are the laboring men? 



Who are not the laboring men? 

They're not the laboring men: 
They who creep in dens and lanes, 
To rob their betters of honest gains; 
The rich that stoop to devour the poor; 
The tramps that beg from door to door; 
The rogues who love a darkened sky, 
And steal and rob, and cheat and lie; 
The loafing wights and senseless bloats 
Who drain their pockets to wet their throats! 

They're not the laboring men — 

The genuine laboring men! 
And all true hearts that the price would give 
For honest joy and a right to live, 



THE LABORING MExN 

And every soul to truth alive, 
Willing to thrive and let others thrive, 
Should rise with a true and steady hand, 
And mark these foes with a villain-brand; 
And shame them into the ranks of toil, 
Or crush them under their kindred soil, 
Away from the laboring men — 
The genuine laboring men! 



23 




UP THE LINE 



Through blinding storm and clouds of night 
We swiftly pushed our restless flight; 
With thundering hoof and warning neigh, 
We urged our steed upon his way, 
Up the line. 

Afar the lofty head-light gleamed; 
Afar the whistle shrieked and screamed; 
And glistening bright, and rising high, 
Our flakes of fire bestrewed the sky, 
Up the line. 






Adown the long, complaining track, 
Our wheels a message hurried back; 
And quivering through the rails ahead, 
Went news of our resistless tread, 
Up the line. 






The trees gave back our din and shout, 
And flung their shadow-arms about; 



UP THE LINE 25 

And shivering in their coats of gray, 
They heard us roaring far away, 
Up the line. 

The wailing storm came on apace, 
And dashed its tears into our face; 
But steadily still we pierced it through, 
And cut the sweeping wind in two, 
Up the line. 

A rattling rush across the ridge, 
A thunder-peal beneath the bridge; 
And valley and hill and sober plain 
Re-echoed our triumphant strain, 
Up the line. 

And when the eastern streaks of gray 
Bespoke the dawn of coming day, 
We halted our steed, his journey o'er, 
And urged his giant form no more, 
Up the line. 




THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL 

A boy drove into the city, his wagon loaded down 
With food to feed the people of the British-gov- 
erned town; 
And the little black-eyed rebel, so innocent and sly, 
Was watching for his coming from the corner of 
her eye. 

His face looked broad and honest, his hands were 

brown and tough, 
The clothes he wore upon him were homespun, 

coarse and rough; 
But one there was who watched him, who long 

time lingered nigh, 
And cast at him sweet glances from the corner of 

her eye. 



He drove up to the market, he waited in the line; 
His apples and potatoes were fresh and fair and fine ; 
But long and long he waited, and no one came to buy 
Save the black-eyed rebel, watching from the corner 
of her eye. 



THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL 27 

"Now who will buy my apples ?" he shouted, long 

and loud; 
And "Who wants my potatoes ?" he repeated to 

the crowd; 
But from all the people round him came no word 

of a reply, 
Save the black-eyed rebel, answering from the 

corner of her eye. 

For she knew that 'neath the lining of the coat he 

wore that day 
Were long letters from the husbands and the fathers 

far away, 
Who were fighting for the freedom that they meant 

to gain or die. 
And a tear like silver glistened in the corner of her eye. 

But the treasures — how to get them? crept the 

question through her mind, 
Since keen enemies were watching for what prizes 

they might find; 
And she paused awhile and pondered, with a pretty 

little sigh, 
Then resolve crept through her features and a 

shrewdness fired her eye. 

So she resolutely walked up to the wagon old and 

red; 
"May I have a dozen apples for a kiss?" she sweetly 

said: 



28 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

And the brown face flushed to scarlet; for the boy 

was somewhat shy, 
And he saw her laughing at him from the corner 

of her eye. 

"You may have them all for nothing, and more, if 

you want," quoth he. 
"I will have them, my good fellow, but can pay for 

them," said she; 
And she clambered on the wagon, minding not who 

all were by, 
With a laugh of reckless romping in the corner of 

her eye. 

Clinging round his brawny neck, she clasped her 

fingers white and small, 
And then whispered, "Quick! the letters! thrust 

them underneath my shawl! 
Carry back again this package, and be sure that 

you are spry!" 
And she sweetly smiled upon him from the corner 

of her eye. 

Loud the motley crowd were laughing at the strange, 

ungirlish freak, 
And the boy was scared and panting, and so dazed 

he could not speak; 
And, "Miss, I have good apples!" a bolder lad did cry; 
But she answered, "No, I thank you," from the 

corner of her eye. 



THE LITTLE BLACK-EYED REBEL 



29 



With the news of loved ones absent to the dear 

friends they would greet, 
Searching them who hungered for them, swift she 

glided through the street. 
" There is nothing worth the doing that it does not 

pay to try," 
Thought the little black-eyed rebel, with a twinkle 

in her eye. 





THE RIDE OF JENNIE M'NEAL 

Paul Revere was a rider bold — 
Well has his valorous deed been told; 
Sheridan's ride was a glorious one — 
Often has it been dwelt upon. 
But why should men do all the deeds 
On which the love of a patriot feeds? 
Hearken to me, while I reveal 
The dashing ride of Jennie M'Neal. 

On a spot as pretty as might be found 

In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground, 

In a cottage, cosey, and all their own, 

She and her mother lived alone. 

Safe were the two, with their frugal store, 

From all of the many who passed their door; 

For Jennie's mother was strange to fears, 

And Jennie was large for fifteen years; 

With vim her eyes were glistening, 

Her hair was the hue of a blackbird's wing; 

And while the friends who knew her well 

The sweetness of her heart could tell. 



THE RIDE OF JENNIE M'NEAL 31 

A gun that hung on the kitchen wall 
Looked solemnly quick to heed her call; 
And they who were evil-minded knew 
Her nerve was strong and her aim was true. 
So all kind words and acts did deal 
To generous, black-eyed Jennie M'Neal. 

One night, when the sun had crept to bed 

And rain-clouds lingered overhead, 

And sent their surly drops for proof 

To drum a tune on the cottage roof, 

Close after a knock at the outer door 

There entered a dozen dragoons or more. 

Their red coats, stained by the muddy road, 

That they were British soldiers showed; 

The captain his hostess bent to greet, 

Saying, "Madam, please give us a bit to eat; 

We will pay you well, and, if may be, 

This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea; 

Then we must dash ten miles ahead, 

To catch a rebel colonel abed. 

He is visiting home, as doth appear; 

We will make his pleasure cost him dear." 

And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal, 

Close- watched the while by Jennie M'Neal. 

For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near 
Had been her true friend, kind and dear; 
And oft, in her younger days, had he 
Right proudly perched her upon his knee, 



32 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

And told her stories many a one 
Concerning the French war lately done; 
And oft together the two friends were, 
And many the arts he had taught to her. 
She had hunted by his fatherly side, 
He had shown her how to fence and ride; 
And once had said, "The time may be 
Your skill and courage may stand by me." 
So sorrow for him she could but feel, 
Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie M'Neal. 

With never a thought or a moment more, 
Bareheaded she slipped from the cottage door, 
Ran out where the horses were left to feed, 
Unhitched and mounted the captain's steed, 
And down the hilly and rock-strewn way 
She urged the fiery horse of gray. 
Around her slender and cloakless form 
Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm; 
Secure and tight, a gloveless hand 
Grasped the reins with stern command; 
And full and black her long hair streamed 
Whenever the ragged lightning gleamed. 
So on she rushed for the coloners weal, 
Brave, lioness-hearted Jennie M'Neal. 

Hark! from the hills, a moment mute, 
Came a clatter of hoofs in hot pursuit; 
And a cry from the foremost trooper said, 
"Haiti or your blood be on your head!" 



THE RIDE OF JENNIE M'NEAL 33 

She heeded it not, and not in vain 
She lashed the horse with the bridle-rein. 
So into the night the gray horse strode; 
His shoes hewed fire from the rocky road; 
And the high-born courage that never dies 
Flashed from his rider's coal-black eyes. 
The pebbles flew from the fearful race; 
The rain-drops grasped at her glowing face. 
"On, on, brave beast !" with loud appeal, 
Cried eager, resolute Jennie M'Neal. 

"Halt!" once more came the voice of dread — 

"Halt! or your blood be on your head!" 

Then, no one answering to the calls, 

Sped after her a volley of balls. 

They passed her in her rapid flight — 

They screamed to her left, they screamed to her right ; 

But, rushing still o'er the slippery track, 

She sent no token of answer back, 

Except a silvery laughter-peal, 

Brave, merry-hearted Jennie M'Neal. 

So on she rushed, at her own good will, 
Through wood and valley, o'er plain and hill; 
The gray horse did his duty well, 
Till all at once he stumbled and fell — 
Himself escaping the nets of harm, 
But flinging the girl with a broken arm. 
Still undismayed by the numbing pain, 
She clung to the horse's bridle-rein, 



34 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

And, gently bidding him to stand, 
Petted him with her able hand; 
Then sprang again to the saddle-bow, 
And shouted, "One more trial now!" 
As if ashamed of the heedless fall, 
He gathered his strength once more for all, 
And, galloping down a hillside-steep, 
Gained on the troopers at every leap; 
No more the high-bred steed did reel, 
But ran his best for Jennie M'Neal. 

They were a furlong behind, or more, 
When the girl burst through the colonel's door- 
Her poor arm, helpless, hanging with pain, 
And she all drabbled and drenched with rain, 
But her cheeks as red as firebrands are, 
And her eyes as bright as a blazing star — 
And shouted, "Quick, be quick, I say! 
They come! they come! Away! away!" 
Then sank on the rude white floor of deal, 
Poor, brave, exhausted Jennie M'Neal. 

The startled colonel sprang, and pressed 
The wife and children to his breast, 
And turned away from his fireside bright, 
And glided into the stormy night; 
Then soon and safely made his way 
To where the patriot army lay. 
But first he bent, in the dim firelight, 
And kissed the forehead broad and white, 



THE RIDE OF JENNIE M'NEAL 35 

And blessed the girl who had ridden so well 
To keep him out of a prison cell. 

The girl roused up at the martial din, 

Just as the troopers came rushing in, 

And laughed, e'en in the midst of a moan, 

Saying, "Good sirs, your bird has flown. 

'Tis I who have scared him from his nest; 

So deal with me now as you think best." 

But the grand young captain bowed, and said, 

"Never you hold a moment's dread. 

Of womankind I must crown you queen; 

So brave a girl I have never seen. 

Wear this gold ring as your valor's due; 

And when peace comes I will come for you." 

But Jennie's face an arch smile wore 

As she said, "There's a lad in Putnam's corps 

Who told me the same, long time ago; 

You two would never agree, I know. 

I promised my love to be true as steel," 

Said good, sure-hearted Jennie M'Neal. 




THE PRIZE OF THE MARGARETTA 



Four young men, of a Monday morn, 
Heard that the flag of peace was torn; 

Heard that " rebels," with sword and gun, 
Had fought the British at Lexington, 

While they were far from that bloody plain, 
Safe on the green-clad shores of Maine. 

With eyes that glittered and hearts that burned, 
They talked of the glory their friends had earned, 

And asked each other, "What can we do, 

So our hands may prove that our hearts are true?" 



ii 

Silent the Margaretta lay, 
Out on the bosom of the bay; 



THE PRIZE OF THE MARGARETTA 37 

On her masts rich bunting gleamed; 
Bravely the flag of England streamed. 

The young men gazed at the tempting prize — 
They wistfully glanced in each other's eyes. 

Said one, "We can lower that cloth of dread, 
And hoist the pine-tree flag instead. 

"We are only boys to the old and sage; 
We have not yet come to manhood's age; 

"But we can show them that, when there's need, 
Men may follow and boys may lead." 

Tightly each other's hands they pressed, 
Loudly they cried, "We will do our best; 

"The pine-tree flag e're day is passed, 
Shall float from the Margaretta's mast." 



in 

They ran to a sloop that lay near-by; 

They roused their neighbors with hue and cry; 

They doffed their hats, gave three loud cheers, 
And called for a crew of volunteers. 

Their bold, brave spirit spread far and wide, 

And men came running from every side. 
4 



38 POEMS POR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Curious armed were the dauntless ones, 
With axes, pitchforks, scythes, and guns; 

They shouted, "Ere yet this day be passed, 
The pine-tree grows from the schooner's mast!' 



IV 

With sails all set, trim as could be, 
The Margaretta stood out to sea. 

With every man and boy in place, 
The gallant Yankee sloop gave chase. 

Rippled and foamed the sunlit seas, 
Freshened and sang the soft May breeze; 

And came from the sloop's low deck, "Hurray! 
We're gaining on her! We'll win the day!" 

A sound of thunder, echoing wide, 
Came from the Margaretta 1 s side; 

A deadly crash and a loud death-yell, 
And one of the brave pursuers fell. 

They aimed a gun at the schooner then, 
And sent the compliment back again — 



THE PRIZE OF THE MARGARETTA 39 

He who at the helm of the schooner stood 
Covered the deck with his rich life-blood. 



Each burning to pay a bloody debt, 
The crews of the hostile vessels met; 

The Western nation, now to be, 
Made her first fight upon the sea; 

And not till forty men were slain 
Did the pine-tree flag a victory gain; 

But at last the hearts of the Britons quailed, 
And grandly the patriot arm prevailed. 

One of the youths the deed to crown 
Grasped the colors and pulled them down; 

And raised, 'mid cries of wild delight, 
The pine-tree flag of blue and white; 

And the truth was shown, for the world to read, 
That men may follow and boys may lead. 




AT THE SUMMIT OF THE WASHINGTON 
MONUMENT 



Look North! A white-clad city fills 

This valley to its sloping hills; 

Here gleams the modest house of white, 

The statesman's longed-for, dizzy height. 

Beyond, a pledge of love to one 

Who in two lands was Freedom's son — 

The holder of an endless debt — 

Our nation's brother, Lafayette. 

But yonder lines of costly homes 

And bristling spires and swelling domes, 

And far away the spreading farms 

Where thrift displays substantial charms, 

And hamlets creeping out of sight, 

And cities full of wealth and might, 

Must own the fatherhood of him 

Whose glory Time can never dim. 

All who can reckon Freedom's worth 

Would write across this whole broad earth, 



WASHINGTON MONUMENT 41 

With pen dipped in the golden sun, 
The magic name of Washington! 
If we can keep the rules he gave 
This land he more than fought to save, 
Our future fame will glisten forth 
Grand as the winter-lighted North! 



Look South! — where, in its coat of gray, 

The broad Potomac creeps away, 

And seeks the blue of distant skies; 

But pauses where the great chief lies 

Within his humble, hallowed tomb, 

Amid Mount Vernon's deathless bloom. 

As glides this stream, great corse, past thee, 

First to the bay, and then the sea, 

So flowed thy life to rural rest, 

Ere thou wast Heaven's eternal guest. 

Oh strong, high man! whose patriot heart 

Climbed from all common greeds apart; 

To whom men's selfish ways were small, 

As from this tower, serenely tall 

(Built that all years thy fame may know), 

Men look while creeping there below! 

How weak was power to thy clear gaze, 

Builder of nations joined in one, 
Kindler of splendors still to blaze, 

Finder of glories just begun! 
Live on, great sleeper! as this stone, 
Highest from earth that man has known, 



42 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

So shall be ranked thy solid worth, 

Highest of heroes on the earth! 

Happy, secure, and cherished name, 

Love is the pillar of thy fame; 

Thy praise comes from each patriot's mouth, 

Warm as the sunbeams of the South! 



Look East! The nation's castle walls 

Spread out in massive beauty now; 
Their lofty dome and pictured halls 

In homage to this summit bow. 
Oh, well that from these palaced lands 

The marble spire obeisance win; 
But for the one for whom it stands, 

This chieftain-town had never been! 
Yon plot, so full of brain and will, 
Had stayed a bleak and lonely hill! 
If at five thousand dizzy feet 
This shaft the whirling clouds could meet, 
Until our gaze for miles might be, 
To the uncrowned but royal sea, 
'Twere not too much of honor then, 
To grant our crownless king of men. 
You who the nation's laws indite, 
Look to this summit's honest white, 
Where, throned on walls that must endure, 
Pure fame entreats you to be pure; 
Until our glory be increased, 
Like sunbeams from the dazzling East! 








FROM THE MONUMENT 



WASHINGTON MONUMENT 43 

Look West! There lie the hilly fields 

Where brothers fought through days of dread, 
Where mothers brooded o'er their dead, 

And soil the thrift of carnage yields; 

Where cannon roared and bullets sung, 

Till every hillock had a tongue. 

O Nation being and to be, 

That silent blood speaks loud to thee! 

God grant, if e'er our guns again 

Must tear the quivering flesh of men, 

The leaden hail-storm may be pressed 

Against some foul invader's breast — 

Against some alien tribe and zone — 

And not, as then, to kill our own! 

May all the fruitful strifes of peace 

The thrilling bonds of love increase; 

May yonder orb, in his quick change 

From mountain range to mountain range, 

From valley to rich valley o'er, 

From river shore to river shore, 

From wave to wave — may yonder sun 

One Nation count, and only one; 

Until he dip his fiery crest 

Into the ocean of the West! 



Look up! The phantom clouds of gray — 
Grim ghosts of storm — have passed away; 
The veiling of the sky is done, 
And downward shines the welcome sun. 



44 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

He kindles grand and peaceful fires 
Upon the city's domes and spires; 
He sends his strong magnetic glow 
Through yonder moving throngs below. 
Thou art, O sky serene and clear, 
A symbol of our country here! 
What land in all this world of pain, 
This earth, where millions toil in vain, 
Where famine, pestilence, and strife 
Play careless games with human life, 
Where Superstition clouds the soul, 
And heartless minds sad hearts control — 
What country, framed in frost or flowers, 
Can see so clear a sky as ours? 
Peace throws her mantle, broad and free, 
O'er all who peaceable will be; 
Plenty her sheltering flag doth wave 
O'er those who will but toil and save; 
Enlightenment each day shall rise 
For all who do not cloud their eyes; 
While Liberty from every race 
Has made this land a refuge-place. 
Let our deep thanks forever fly 
Far as the reaches of the skv! 



PART II 

POEMS OF FESTIVALS AND ANNI- 
VERSARIES 




THE QUEEN OF THE DAYS 

Now all of the days one day were met, 
With sober and anxious mien, 

To choose which one they owed the debt 
Of crowning it king or queen. 

Then New Year shouted, "I always led 
The column, and always will; 

Give me the crown for my gallant head!" 
But all the days were still. 

Then Easter spoke — the beautiful child — 

And told her gentle will; 
They tenderly looked at her and smiled, 

But all of them yet were still. 



Victoria's natal day was there, 
Hedged round with martial skill, 

And a glorious reign without compare 
But all of the days were still. 



48 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

July had come with its ordnance-tone 
The world of the West to thrill; 

And far was the birth of a nation known, 
But all of the days were still. 

Thanksgiving lifted her thanks on high, 

And winsomely ate her fill; 
The days looked up to the distant sky, 

But all of them yet were still. 

Now Christmas came, divinely fair, 
Her eyes as a star-beam bright; 

The gold of the sun was in her hair, 
Her form was a ray of light. 

She held in the great worlds dazzled gaze 
Good gifts for living and dead; 

She smiled at all of her sister-days, 
But never a word she said. 

All knew that the friendly strife was done, 

And never a word said they, 
But knelt and crowned the beautiful one 

As queen for ever and aye. 





WHAT SHALL WE GIVE? 

What shall we give on a Christmas Day? — 

Money? — they say it is sordid and old, 
And hearts that are seeking the upward way 

Are crushed to earth by the weight of gold. 
And still does the bank-note's whisper bring 

The palace of pleasure yet more near; 
And fair-faced coin, as together they ring, 

Are silver and golden bells of cheer. 
So let not sentiment war with thrift, 
But mingle them both in a Christmas gift. 

Give me a cluster of precious gems — 

Stars of the earth, that were born to rise 
Into affection's diadems, 

Into the lover's changeful skies. 
Though all the jewels of rock and tide 

Should weave together in one strong ray, 
'Twere naught but a burst of glow beside 

The deathless glory of Christmas Day. 
Yet costly love is the earth-cloud's rift, 
And gems are a goodly Christmas gift. 



5o POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

I see the broideries' colors flow 

Through palace-parlors and humble rooms. 
Flit delicate fingers to and fro — 

The ivory shuttles of living looms. 
Toil on at your queenly task, O queens! 

And wield your sceptres of form and hue; 
The dainty fittings you give life's scenes 

Will last eternity's drama through. 
Earth's clouded curtains will fade and shift, 
But loving toil is a deathless gift. 

What shall we give on a Christmas Day? — 

Whatever a heart to a heart can spare; 
Whate'er through the dark can throw a ray, 

Whate'er can fetter the hands of care. 
Not all the riches of earth and sea 

Could build their statues one soul above; 
And presents, if rightly weighed, must be 

Hung first on the golden scales of love. 
While ever to Heaven our thanks uplift, 
For God invented the Christmas gift. 




THE DAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS 




THE CHRISTMAS-TIDE 

Now comes the Christmas-tide: 
Love walks on every side; 
Mirth smiles from every eye; 
Wreaths greet the passer-by. 

Who, full of haughty pride, 
Loves not the Christmas-tide? 
He who, with av'rice low, 
Cares not to joy bestow. 

God save the wretch denied 
Love for the Christmas-tide! 
God tell his hardened heart 
Pure joy must joy impart! 



Who, close to grief allied, 
Grieves 'mid the Christmas-tide? 
She who, at Sorrow's call, 
Now mourns the loss of all. 



52 



POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 



God save the dear bereft — 
Teach her the mercies left! 
Show her that clouds may yet 
Lift, ere her sun be set! 




THE CHRISTMAS-TREE 

Where grows the Christmas-tree — 
The green, deep-rooted Christmas-tree? 
By what brave toil, in what rich soil, 

Can spring the blooming Christmas-tree? 
Is it from prairies broad and deep 
Where future harvests softly sleep, 
And flocks of acres, far and free, 
Lie level as a waveless sea? 
Or is it where a breeze-skein twines 
Between the lofty plumaged pines? 
Or where a stealthy languor roves 
Among the Southland orange-groves? 
Or blooms it best 'mid city homes, 
With Wealth's unnumbered spires and domes? 
Or is it where, through changeful day, 
The mountain shadows creep and play, 
And swift a gleaming sun-flood rides 
Along the tall cliff's dappled sides? 
High grows the Christmas-tree, 
The sweet, love -planted Christmas-tree — 
Where'er extends the hand of friends; 
Wherever heart-caressings be. 



54 



POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 



What bears the Christmas-tree — 
The bright, rich-fruited Christmas-tree? 
What gather they, expectant-gay, 

Who throng around the Christmas-tree? 
Leaves picked by love-instructed art 
From off the branches of the heart; 
Fruits culled from every tree and vine 
Where zephyrs float and sunbeams shine. 
Whate'er can brighten to our gaze 
The trembling dawn of childhood days; 
Whate'er can feed more clear and high 
The flame of youth's expectant eye; 
Whate'er can make more richly good 
The blood of man or womanhood, 
Or bid old age look smiling round 
At gems of earth- joy newly found; 
Whate'er can say, "While strength endures. 
My life has love and help for yours." 
Rich glows the Christmas-tree, 
The heart-protected Christmas-tree — 
With tokens dear that bring more near 
God's earth-lent love to you and me. 




III! SWEET, LOVE-PLANTED CHRISTMAS-TREE 




HYMN OF THANKSGIVING 
To the air, u Portuguese Hymn" 



We thank Thee, O Father, for all that is bright — 
The gleam of the day, and the stars of the night; 
The flowers of our youth and the fruits of our 

prime, 
And blessings e'er marching the pathway of time. 

We Thank Thee, O Father, for all that is drear— 
The sob of the tempest, the flow of the tear; 
For never in blindness, and never in vain, 
Thy mercy permitted a sorrow or pain. 

We thank Thee, O Father, for song and for feast — 
The harvest that glowed and the wealth that in- 
creased ; 
For never a blessing encompassed thy child 
But Thou in Thy mercy looked downward and 
smiled. 



56 



POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 



We thank Thee, O Father of all, for the power 
Of aiding each other in life's darkest hour — 
The generous heart and the bountiful hand, 
And all the soul-help that sad souls understand. 



We thank Thee, O Father, for days yet to be, 
For hopes that our future will call us to Thee; 
That all our Eternity form, through Thy love, 
One Thanksgiving Day in the mansions above. 




"MENDING THE OLD FLAG" 

In the silent gloom of a garret room, 

With cobwebs round it creeping, 
From day to day the old Flag lay — 

A veteran worn and sleeping. 
Dingily old, each wrinkled fold 

By the dust of years was shaded; 
Wounds of the storm were upon its form; 

The crimson stripes were faded. 

'Twas a mournful sight in the day-twilight, 

This thing of humble seeming, 
That once so proud o'er the cheering crowd 

Had carried its colors gleaming: 
Stained with mould were the braids of gold, 

That had flashed at the sun-ray's kissing; 
Of faded hue was its field of blue, 

And some of the stars were missing. 



Three Northern maids and three from glades 
Where dreams the Southland weather, 



58 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

With glances kind and arms entwined, 

Came up the stair together: 
They gazed awhile, with a thoughtful smile, 

At the crouching form before them; 
With clinging holds they grasped its folds, 

And out of the darkness bore them. 

They healed its scars, they found its stars, 

And brought them all together 
(Three Northern maids and three fromglades 

Where smiles the Southland weather) ; 
They mended away through the summer day, 

Made glad by an inspiration 
To fling it high at the smiling sky, 

On the birthday of our nation. 

In the brilliant glare of the summer air, 

With a brisk breeze round it creeping, 
Newly bright through the glistening light, 

The flag went grandly sweeping: 
Gleaming and bold were its braids of gold, 

And flashed in the sun-ray's kissing; 
Red, white, and blue were of deepest hue, 

And none of the stars was missing. 




SONG— LANGUAGE OF THE FLAG 

O stars of our flag one by one you arose, 

'Till the sky on our banner was blazing with 
splendor ! 
Each ray from their depths is a night to our foes 

And a sunburst of joy to the gallant defender. 
Not only their worth cheers the land of your birth, 
But flings its clear light to the ends of the earth! 
And the nation shall never from victory rest 
'Till the world is as free as the Land of the West! 

O stripes of the flag! — you are emblems of woe 

That fell on the hearts of the founders we cherish ; 
'Gainst the frowns of the storm and the guns of the 

foe 
They fought that the land of their love should 

not perish. 
The stripes that gleam red are from blood that was 

shed, 
And the white ones between are from shrouds of 

our dead; 



6o POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

And farther and farther this emblem shall wave, 
'Till the world has forgot that there e'er was a 
slave ! 

O staff of our flag; — you are sturdy and strong, 
Like the people whose hands and whose hearts 

must uphold you! 
You cling to the colors, through tempests of wrong, 
Or when 'mid the zephyrs of peace they enfold 

you. 
On many a field you have scorned e'er to yield, 
For the hearts of the brave were your sword and 

your shield; 
And you promise for ages to stay in your might, 
'Till the world gathers round you — firm standard 

of right! 




OUR GUESTS UNSEEN 

Who are the guests in this festal throng? 

Many are here that we love and see: 
Men who have heard the soprano song 

Of flying bullets that death set free; 
Men who left a part of their days 

Off in the field where the blood-stains are; 
Men who had dropped the sweet home-ways 

Out of their hands, to grasp a star. 
Honor to those who are living yet! 

Time shall their laurels make more green! 
But at this hour we must not forget 

Those we may call our guests unseen. 

One is a silent, mighty soul, 

Who rose from the plane of common things, 
To half of the fighting world's control, 

And starred in the list of Triumph's kings. 
When humbly toiling for daily bread, 
When soothed by Luxury's rich caress, 
When measuring acres of hapless dead, 

Or flushed with the giddy draught, success; 



62 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Striving in blood-red clouds of woe 
To lead the land 'neath victory's sun, 

Or taking the sword of a fallen foe, 

And writing the great words, "War is done": 

Or ruling the marble halls of state, 

Thrust far to the statesman's utmost goal, 
Or ruined by those he found too late 

Were friends of his purse and not his soul; 
Or toiling on Mount McGregor's height, 

Longing for days that would let him die, 
Waging meanwhile a sturdy fight 

Whenever the foe Despair came nigh; 
From earliest life to latest breath, 

Through valleys of woe, or hills of pride, 
Through glories of life and glooms of death, 

His heart and his brain marched side by side. 
The Hudson's shore has the death-stilled heart; 

The hands in that hermit-tomb may rest; 
But heroes and graves dwell far apart, 

And Grant to-day is our unseen guest! 



Another: a lithe, commanding form, 

Kind features, stern with a soldier-gaze: 
A cliff of rock in a battle storm, 

A garden of smiles in peaceful days. 
He burned belligerent cities low, 

He planted ruin on every side, 
But offered love to a fallen foe, 

And wept when his friend McPherson died. 




'• WE MUST NOT FORGET 



OUR GUESTS UNSEEN 63 

He shaped his army into a sword, 

And cut the enemy's land in twain, 
Yet gave the conquered their kindest word, 

And erred, if ever, to spare them pain. 
The office-heroes who fought for place, 

Strove hard to fetter him with their pelf; 
But he fought for his country and his race, 

And not for jewels to crown himself. 
In times of peace it was his to be 

The foremost gentleman of the land: 
Death has no power o'er such as he, 

So reach for the brave old Sherman's hand! 



Another: a tall and sinewy form, 

A face marked deep with the lines of care; 
A will of iron, but a heart as warm 

As fiery breeze of the tropic air. 
He was born a prince, but in hovels cast — 

He made the cabin a palace, then; 
He grew to be more than a king, at last; 

For monarchs, you know, are not always men. 
His fight for the crown was hard and grim, 

But his march to the front was firm and true; 
He fought for the stars, and the stars for him, 

And God had miracles he must do. 
At last he came to his lofty place, 

But wild rebellion was knocking there; 
Hot anger frowned at his honest face, 

And desolation was in the air. 



64 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

He swore that treason should be met 

By every pain that could lay it low, 
He rallied ruin against it; yet 

His heart beat warm for every foe. 
So on he toiled, till lo! in view 

Swept sacred Emancipation's plan! 
He did the deed he was sent to do; 

For God was there and God knew His man. 
Guiding the nation in rocks and shoals, 

He climbed the eternal mast of fame, 
And, graced with the thanks of all true souls, 

Wrote Liberator before his name. 
His eyes flashed triumph, then swift grew dim- 

A murderer tore that life apart; 
But those he loved are still loving him, 

And Lincoln is here in every heart! 



But why should I call the muster-roll 

Of those who are here in our hearts to-day? 
They need no naming; each true, grand soul 

Has heard your summons and marched this way. 
Why call to Hancock, worthy all praise, 

Superb in stature and mental might, 
Who helped save Gettysburg's ominous days, 

And left brave blood at that glorious fight? 
Why call to Sedgwick — modest man — 

Who longed but to do his duty well; 
Who died in the battle's deadly van, 

With no obeisance to shot or shell? 



OUR GUESTS UNSEEN 65 

Why call McClellan, whose last life view 

Traced over these hills its eager track, 
Whose soldiers called him their comrade true, 

And spoke of him ever as " Little Mac"? 
The Kearneys, Wadsworths, Burnsides, Meades, 

Charge to the front of our memory; they 
Endorse their commissions with noble deeds, 

And star in this festal throng to-day. 
A mighty and brilliant band is here, 

That none with the eye of flesh may see; 
They come from their graves both far and near, 

Their bodies prisoned, their souls set free. 
Year after year this unseen throng, 

By death recruited, counts more and more; 
And louder and louder the battle-song 

Of heroes that camp on the unseen shore. 
If they could speak to us all to-day, 

These words with their greetings would be 
twined : 
"Remember us with what love you may, 

But care for our loved ones left behind. 
You give us monuments grand and high, 

You sing to our bravery o'er and o'er, 
But let us know that we did not die 

That those we cherished might suffer more!" 

And where are the thousands who bravely waged 
A losing strife? Whose hearts were true, 

Though false their cause? Whose souls engaged 
Their all in the work they had to do? 



66 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

The warrior crudest in the fight, 

Is tenderest to the fallen foe; 
The hand that stabs with deadliest might, 

Would stanch forever the crimson flow. 
If all of the noblest Southern dead 

Could march together into this place, 
With Lee's tall form at the column's head, 

And Stonewall Jackson's calm, kind face, 
And each should bear the smile of a friend, 

As many of those who live have done, 
No man that is here, but would straight extend 

The hand of friendship to every one, 
The war is over; the strife has fled; 

Love lingers the living ones between; 
Let all of the brave Confederate dead 

Be welcomed here as our guests unseen! 




OUR ARMY OF THE DEAD 

By the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of 

Freedom roar, 
And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to 

the shore, 
On the nation's Eastern hill-tops, where its corner- 
stone is laid, 
On the mountains of New England, where our 

fathers toiled and prayed, 
Mid old Keystone's rugged riches, which the miner's 

hand await, 
Mid the never-ceasing commerce of the busy Empire 

State, 
With the country's love and honor on each brave, 

devoted head, 
Is a band of noble heroes — is our Army of the 

Dead. 



On the lake-encircled homestead of the thriving 
Wolverine, 

On the beauteous Western prairies, with their car- 
peting of green, 



68 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

By the sweeping Mississippi, long our country's 

pride and boast, 
On the rugged Rocky Mountains, and the rich 

Pacific coast, 
In the listless, sunny Southland, with its blossoms 

and its vines, 
On the bracing Northern hill-tops, and amid their 

murmuring pines, 
Over all our happy country — over all our nation 

spread, 
Is a band of noble heroes — is our Army of the 

Dead. 



Not with musket, and with sabre, and with glad 

heart beating fast; 
Not with cannon that had thundered till the bloody 

war was past; 
Not with voices that are shouting with the vim of 

victory's note; 
Not with armor gayly glistening, and with flags 

that proudly float; 
Not with air of martial vigor, nor with steady, 

soldier tramp, 
Come they grandly marching to us — for the boys 

are all in camp. 
With forgetfulness upon it — each within his earthly 

bed, 
Waiting for his marching orders — is our Army of 

the Dead. 



OUR ARMY OF THE DEAD 



69 



Fast asleep the boys are lying, in their low and 

narrow tents, 
And no battle-cry can wake them, and no orders 

call them hence; 
And the yearnings of the mother, and the anguish 

of the wife, 
Cannot with their magic presence call the soldier 

back to life. 

6 




FESTIVALS OF THE NATION 

The January day when first Ben Franklin glanced 
upon 

The Boston which acquired that day her most illus- 
trious son; 

The frigid February date when Washington first 
smiled 

Upon the country that was yet to call itself his 
child ; 

The raw March day when Quakers made Conces- 
sion^ proclamation, 

Thus furnishing a germ and hint for our own Dec- 
laration ; 

The weeping April day when, with a baby voice's 
aid, 

Young Thomas Jefferson his first free utterance 
loudly made; 

The sweet May day on which, amid the tear-drops' 
fragrant showers, 

War-mourners covered first the graves of those 
they loved with flowers; 



FESTIVALS OF THE NATION 71 

The famous seventeenth day of June when, with 
new-welded will, 

Americans both lost and won the Battle of the Hill ; 

The sultry summer day when, set by passion's 
earthquake free, 

A new-found nation showed its head above Op- 
pression's sea 

The August day when Fulton first, without a stitch 
of sail, 

Climbed up the Hudson's liquid stair, in Acclama- 
tion's gale; 

The blithe September day this land has no right to 
forget, 

That made America the gift of valiant La Fayette; 

The gold October day in which Columbus bent the 
knee, 

And thanked his God for showing him a refuge for 
the free; 

The bright November day, when, driven by patriot 
endeavor, 

Armed Britons trimmed reluctant sails, and left 
New York forever: 

The bright December day on which the May- 
flower's frozen band 

Stepped on the famous Pilgrim Rock, and thence 
to Freedom's land; 

And several other days that come into our heart 
and mind, 

On which the western world had served the cause 
of humankind. 




WASHINGTON-MONTH 

February — February — 

How your moods and actions vary, 

Or to seek or shun! 
Now a smile of sunlight lifting, 
Now in chilly snowrlakes drifting; 
Now with icy shuttles creeping, 

Silver webs are spun. 
Now with laden torrents leaping, 

Ocean ward you run, 
Now with bells you blithely sing, 

'Neath the stars or sun; 
Now a blade of murder bring 

To the sufTring one; 
February — you are very 

Dear when all is done. 
Many blessings rest above you — 
You one day (and so we love you) 

Gave us Washington. 




GENERAL GEORGE WASHINGTON' 




RHYMES TO THE DAY 

Oh, the Fourth of July! 
When fire-crackers fly, 

And urchins in petticoats tyrants defy: 
When all the still air 
Creeps away in despair, 

And Clamor is king, be the day dark or fair 
When Freedom's red flowers 
Fall in star-spangled showers, 

And Liberty capers for twenty-four hours! 
When the morn's ushered in 
By a sleep-crushing din, 

That tempts us to use philological sin! 
When the forenoon advances 
With large circumstances 

Subjecting our lives to debatable chances! 
When the soldiers of peace 
Their attractions increase, 

By marching, protected with clubs of police! 
When the little toy-gun 
Has its share of the fun, 

By teaching short-hand to the favorite son! 



74 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

When maids do not scream 

At the gun's noise and gleam, 
Being chock-full of patriotism, gum, and ice-cream! 

When horses, hard-bittish, 

Get nervous and skittish, 
Not knowing their ancestors helped whip the British ! 

When the family flag, 

Full of stars, stripes, and brag, 
From the window pops out like a cat from a bag! 

When picnic crowds go forth, 

Their freedom to throw forth, 
Coming back full of patriotism, glory, and so forth! 

When long-trained excursions, 

With various diversions, 
Go out and make work for the doctors and surgeons ! 

When Uncle Jim Brown 

Drives his wagon to town, 
Full of gingerbread, children, and thirst — for renown! 

When good dear sister Jones 

Hears the tumult with groans, 
And prays that her children come off with whole bones ! 

When all fancies and joys 

That can compass a noise, 
The country in one day of glory employs! 

'Tis a glorious time 

For a song or a rhyme, 
Or a grand cannonade, or an orchestra's chime, 

If one can live through it, 

And not come to rue it — 
The day that our forefathers said they would do it! 



RHYMES TO THE DAY 75 

Oh, the Fourth of July! 

When grand souls hover nigh, 
When Washington bends from the honest blue sky! 

When Jefferson stands — 

Famous scribe of all lands — 
The charter of Heaven in his glorified hands! 

When his comrade — strong, high 

John Adams, comes nigh — 
For both went to rest the same Fourth of July! 

When Franklin — grand — droll — 

That could lightnings control — 
Comes here with his sturdy, progressive old soul! 

When Freedom's strong staff, 

Hancock — with a laugh — 
Writes in Memory's Album his huge autograph! 

When old Putnam is met: 

Who — they'll never forget — 
Showed the foe that a God was in Israel yet! 

When Mad Anthony Wayne 

Rides up with loose rein, 
And receives our encomiums for being insane! 

When George the Third flounced 

From this country, well trounced, 
Wishes now that his madness had been less pronounced ! 

When comes Hamilton, fain 

To neglect to explain 
How so little a form could support such a brain! 

When the brave Lafayette, 

Our preserver and pet, 
Comes again to collect of us Gratitude's debt! 



76 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

When Marion advances, 
(His Christian-name Francis) 

Who played for the British in several dances! 
When all the souls grand 
That made mighty our land, 

Around us in hopefulness silently stand, 
And wish, beyond doubt, 
That they also could shout, 

And help ring the anthem of Liberty out! 
When the peals of our mirth, 
And our claims of true worth, 

Are heard to the uttermost ends of the earth; 
To the low and the high, 
Who the tyrants defy, 

A glorious old day is the Fourth of July! 



But let thought have its way, 

And give memory sway: 
Do we think of the cost of this glorified day? 

Do we think of the pain 

Of the body, heart, brain — 
The toils of the living, the blood of the slain? 

Should we ever forget 

What a deep-mortgaged debt 
Has been placed on this date, and exists even 
yet? 

What to our minds saith 

The icy cold breath 
Of Valley Forge — freezing our soldiers to death? 



RHYMES TO THE DAY 77 

Can our hearts find a tongue 

For those men, old and young, 
Who fought while a rope o'er their heads grimly 
hung? 

Of the toils o'er and o'er 

That brave Unionists bore, 
Lest our country should go into pieces once more? 

Do we think, while overt 

Patriotism we assert, 
How a sword-blade will sting — how a bullet can 
hurt? 

Do we feel the fierce strain 

Of the edge-belinked chain 
That drags through the body — a wounded man's 
pain? 

Do we know, by-the-way, 

What it might be to stay 
In the wards of a hospital, day after day, 

While our life-blood was shed 

On a pain-mattressed bed, 
And no one we loved to stand near us when dead? 

What it may be to lie 

'Neath a smoke-blotted sky, 
With horse-hoofs to trample us e'en as we die? 

Do we think of that boy, 

Full of hope, love, and joy, 
Who died lest strong men should his country destroy! 

Of that husband who fell 

In the blood-streaming dell, 
Leaving only the memory of battles fought well? 



7 8 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

While the harvest-field waves, 

Do we think of those braves 
In the farms quickly planted with thousands of 
graves ? 

How the great flag up there, 

Clean and pure as the air, 
Has been drabbled with blood-drops, and trailed in 
despair ? 

Do we know what a land 

God hath placed in our hand, 
To be made into star-gems, or crushed into sand? 

Let us feel that our race, 

Doomed to no second place, 
Must glitter with triumph or die in disgrace; 

That millions unborn, 

At night, noon, and morn, 
Will thank us with blessings or curse us with scorn, 

For raising more high 

Freedom's flag to the sky, 
Or losing forever the Fourth of July! 



PART III 

HUMOROUS VERSE 




THE TWO BOYS 
The "Tot" Discourses 

Of all the peoples in this town, 

So far as I can see, 
The best two fellows, up and down, 

Is Uncle Joe an' me. 
We found each other long ago — 
How much it is I can't quite know — 
I guess a thousan' years or so — 

An' never didn't agree. 

We know where all the blue jays nest, 

Does Uncle Joe an' me, 
An' when the robins sings the best, 

An' where the squirrels be; 
An' when the rabbits romp an' play, 
An' where the biggest woodchucks stay, 
An' where the owl sleeps every day, 

An* where the thrushes be. 



When we drive out he lets me drive, 
An' then we both agree 



82 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

There ain't two bigger sports alive 

Than Uncle Joe an' me. 
He says he'd just as lives as not 
Lend me the fastest horse he's got; 
He wouldn't let no other "tot" 

Take hold the reins, you see! 

We know the biggest stories, too, 

Does Uncle Joe an' me, 
An' some of 'em is partly true, 

An' some is goin' to be; 
'Bout Injuns, full of scalps an' noise, 
An' giants that had trees fur toys, 
An' how things was when we was boys- 
Some years ago, you see! 

My mommer says we've got to die, 

An' angels live an' be, 
An' go an' dwell up in the sky, 

From sin forever free; 
But that's what I don't mean to do 
Till Uncle Joe gets started, too: 
For heaven would be most awful blue 

'Thout Uncle Joe an' me! 




THE OARSMAN'S STORY 

Hold it steady — don't disturb him — give him lee- 
way for to bite. 

Yes, you've got him! reel him careful, for he'll 
make a lovely fight! 

Oh, my gracious! now you've lost him, an' he's 
swiped your hook an' bait! 

Never mind; we'll throw another; he will stan' 
around an' wait. 

It's a reason for our thinkin' that the fish are slow 
to feel, 

That their appetites '11 sharpen when they get a 
taste o' steel! 

Now, that sort o' half reminds me of a bass I used 

to imow, 
That was brains from prow to rudder, if a fish was 

ever so; 
For he stole my bait off handy every time I throwed 

it in, 
An' then flopped up from the water with a cunnin' 

sort o' grin; 



84 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

An' I finely named him Lawyer: for he'd leave the 

hook as bare 
As a client in a court-room with atturneys fur to 

spare. 

An* I worked him late an* early, an' I give him all 
the chance 

That a fish was ever offered, for to take a river- 
dance ; 

But he made the same division an' he drawed it 
very fine, 

Taking fur himself the minny — leavin' me the hook 
an* line; 

An* I struggled late and early with my fish -poles 
an* my reels, 

An' my time an' strength an' minnies — jest to give 
that fish his meals. 

An 1 it finely come to askin' whether natives on the 

shore, 
That had paddled through the river for a forty 

year or more, 
Should be beaten every summer by a feller, it 

appears, 
Who had only swum the water for a half a dozen 

years ; 
An' two nights I laid a-thinkin' how to work it on 

him slick, 
An* to play the little lawyer one good everlastin' 

trick. 



THE OARSMAN'S STORY 85 

Then I built a queer contraption strung with new- 
invented crooks — 

'Twas a circus made of minnies an' a side-show full 
o' hooks; 

An' I don't suppose a critter could go near it head 
or tail, 

But 'twas sure to catch him somehow, an* to hold 
him like a nail; 

An* I loudly hollered " Glory !" an* was full o' joy 
an' pride, 

When that afternoon I snapped him, with a fish- 
hook in his side! 



But he mildly gazed upon me, as I drawed him up 

an* near, 
With a look of disappointment in his eye so black 

an' clear; 
An' he seemed to say as reg'lar as a fish with words 

to spare, 
u Now, you know, to make it decent you are bound 

to catch me fair! 
You an' I has been a-strivin' at a scientific game, 
An' to treat me foul an' sneaky is an everlastin' 

shame!" 

Then I ans'rs, " Do you mean it — do you think it — 

straight an* true?" 
An* he winked his eye like sayin', "Yes, by gracious, 
? sir, I do!" 



86 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

An' I picked the fish-hook from him, usin' most 

unusual care, 
An' he seemed to whisper, "Thank you; but it's 

only just an' fair!" 
An' I cut off my new fish-hooks — all the whole 

infernal set — 
An' I throwed 'em in the river, and they're in the 

river yet. 

An' I launched my friend a-floatin' in the water 
cold an' blue, 

An' he flopped a sort of "Thank you" as he dis- 
appeared from view; 

An' he never stole a minny nor seemed ready to 
commence, 

Though he's sort o' hung around me in the water 
ever sence; 

An' I often think the feller means to pay me back 
ag'in, 

An* now acts as my atturney fur to rope the others 
in. 

But he started me a-thinkin* : When you fish, as 

fish you will, 
Be a sport an' not a butcher; try to catch an* not 

to kill; 
Keep enough to serve your eat in', let the surplus 

fellers go; 
Send the small ones to their mothers — give 'em 

time to fat an* grow; 



THE OARSMAN'S STORY 



87 



An* when pullin' in the fishes, don't be slow to 

recollect 
To secure 'em in a manner not to forfeit their 

respect. 




FROM CORNFIELD TO RIVER 

Yes, a seashore swimmin'-hole in a manner is ex- 

citin', 
Jumpin' billows like a hoop, or with ramlike waves 

a-fightin , ; 
Beddin , in the flea-bit sand, tryin' to improve the 

weather, 
In a pair of overalls an' a shirt-waist sewed to- 
gether ; 
But for me, I must agree, that the ocean ain't a 

trimmm* 
To the day we ran away from the fields, to go 

a-swimmin' ! 
[Thus said Ahab Adams, riding in "my auto-mo- 

what-is-it?" 
To his brother Daniel Adams, from Montana on a 

visit.] 



What an afternoon that was! All creation seemed 

a-burnin ' ! 
Sim an* Jim an 1 me an' you agricult'ral tricks was 

learn in'; 



FROM CORNFIELD TO RIVER 89 

'Mongst the corn an' punkin vines for the world's 

advancement growin\ 
We four boys was takin' walks where the baked 

world needed hoein\ 

What a hot-house day it was! Sun a bonfire just 
above us; 

Air as still as grassy graves of the folks that used 
to love us; 

Skies as clear as babies' eyes — old moon grinned at 
our condition; 

Cloud or cloudlet anywhere was an unknown prop- 
osition. 

So we done the horses' work, while they stood 
'neath shade-trees charmin' 

(Cultivators wan't yet made, so that men could 
ride their farmin'). 

An' we walked an' hoed an' arg'ed various matters 

of creation 
That would make us think way off an' forget our 

perspiration : 
Wondered 'bout the steamboat craft ploughin' up 

a watery furrow, 
Deacon Smith had seen one day when he went to 

Middleborough ; 
Wondered at the railroad trains — how there ever 

come to be one — 
If they'd sometime skip our way, so we'd ever git 

to see one; 



9 o POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Talked about the stars on high — mostly suns of 

long existence — 
Glad, if they was like our sun, they knowed how to 

keep their distance; 
Talked about the 'lectric wire that the city folks 

was gettin' — 
Wondered how they kep' the news, when 'twas 

rainy, from a wettin'; 

Talked about the winter school; how we worked 

there like the dickens 
On the sums; an* how, somehow, ans'ers wan't as 

flush as lickin's; 
How warm Sundays growed the sermons; how we 

never got to miss one; 
Wondered if the other world had a cornfield hot 

as this one; 
Talked our high ambitions higher, mourned the 

poverty that bound us — 
Talked of all the pretty gals for ten miles or so 

around us; 
Hoein' with our minds an' hearts facts we'd noticed 

or been taught of — 
Several things that Markham's fool mebby never 

even thought of. 

But while we was bakin' there, raisin' fodder for 

the cattle, 
In the road some rods away we could hear a wagon 

rattle ; 



FROM CORNFIELD TO RIVER 91 

It was Dad, a-drivin' off to'rds the village, with the 

women ; 
An' I recollect you said, "Boys, le's sneak an' go 

a-swimmin'!" 



I hev since been up an' down through agreements 

an' contentions; 
I hev even helped to run legislatur's an' conventions; 
But for unanimity right up equal to my notion 
I hev never seen it yet since the time you made 

that motion. 



How we crept off through the woods till we found 

that blessed river! 
How we dove into its depths, with a first delicious 

shiver ! 
How we paddled up an' down! How we splashed 

each others' faces! 
How we tunnelled through the water, comin* up in 

different places! 
How we towed each other round by the hair an' 

heels alternit! 
How a half of tis could swim an' the others tried to 

learn it! 
How we envied everything that was ever scaled or 

finny ! 
"This," I recollect you said, "beats the cornfield 

all to Guinea!" 



92 



POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 



Yes, 'twas heaven! an* when 'twas through nothin' 

made it less elatin' 
'Ceptin Dad upon the bank, with some birch-sticks, 

calmly waitin\ 




ALWAYS A "KICK" 

" Farmer, how was your wheat this year?"- 

" Thrifty of stalk and head; 
Plump of kernel and cleanly grown — 
Better than any I ever have known," 

The smiling farmer said. 

" How was your crop of corn this year, 

Marketed, floured, or fed?" — 
" Sleek and thick, and yellow as gold, 
And never a frost till the season was old," 
The smiling farmer said. 

14 How are your oats and barley and rye, 

Your apples of green and red? 
How did the hay and potatoes thrive?" — 
" Never better since man was alive," 
The candid farmer said. 

" Farmer, what was the guerdon you gained 
For crops that you marketed?" — 

11 Prices stood at the very top, 

And beckoned and beckoned for every crop,' 
The smiling farmer said. 



94 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

" Then you have nothing to grumble about, 

But praise and rejoice instead !" — 
" Well, but then you must understand 
Such crops draw terribly on the land!" 
The grumbling farmer said. 




FARMER STEBBINS AT FOOTBALL 

While walkin' up the village street, a-fightin' there 

I see 
Some twenty fellers, more or less, as fierce as fierce 

could be. 
'Twas in a medder nigh to where the college late 

was built, 
An' not a proper place for blood to be unduly 

spilt ; 
So, very peaceable inclined, an* al'ays actin* thus, 
I thought, "I'll try what may be done to regulate 

the fuss." 



My goodness, how them fellers fit! they'd punch 
each other there 

Like hungry cattle when the frost is nibblin' 
through the air. 

An' one would pick up somethin' quick, an' run 
off, fit to kill, 

With several others chasm' him, as chickens some- 
times will; 



96 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Then if he on his stomach fell, there right in his 

distress 
They'd pounce upon him, hard an* square, a dozen, 

more or less; 

An' when my eyes untangled 'em, an* glanced 'em 

through an' o'er, 
To my surprise I found Fd seen full half of 'em 

before : 
Young Caleb Stubbs, who once was raised across 

the road from me, 
But I had never thought, before, would hurt an 

ailin' flea; 
An' Joseph Minks, who's al'ays fit whene'er he had 

a chance, 
Was now as gay an' much to home as Frenchmen 

at a dance; 

An' Thomas Tutts, who's bein' taught so he him- 
self can teach; 

An' Samuel Strapp, who's trainin' so's to have a 
call to preach; 

An' Peter Pills, who l ll some day strive to cure the 
world, no doubt, 

Was strivin' hard, apparently, to kill an' wipe 'em 
out; 

An' several others all appeared to do what death 
they could, 

From whom I'd al'ays looked for things a thousan' 
times as good. 



FARMER STEBBINS AT FOOTBALL 97 

An* what still deeper troubled me, a lot o* folks 

near by 
Didn't seem to care to hold 'em back, an' wouldn't 

even try; 
But sort o' toiled to help it on, an' make a fightin' 

din; 
An' even girls would grit their teeth an' holler, 

"Boys, go in!" 
An* then I says, "Them fellers all appear in Death's 

employ ; 
If there's an undertaker here, he's sheddin' tears 

of joy." 

An' terrified at what they'd done, an* what they 
meant to do, 

I struggled hard to recollect a Riot Act or two; 

But naught appeared that I could reach on Mem- 
ory's cluttered shelf, 

An' so I had, as one might say, to make one up 
myself. 

I wildly rushed into their midst, an' yelled with all 
my might, 

"See here, now, boys, this school wasn't built to 
teach you how to fight!" 



But still they all kep' on their way, as fierce as 

fierce could be, 
An' none of 'em was blessed with sense to listen 

unto me; 



98 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

But while I still upheld the right, in words I won't 

repeat, 
Th' apparent cause of all their fuss rolled plump 

betwixt my feet! 
An* then such buff e tin' amidst the angry waves of 

strife, 
I never yet had come across in all my earthly life! 

I've sported in a skatin'-rink, an' helped to dust 
the floor; 

I've served as drift-wood in the waves of Jersey's 
stormy shore; 

I've clutched a tall toboggan-slide, the while my 
cheek did blanch, 

Then, lettin' go, reluctantly become an avalanche; 

I've entered cars on Brooklyn Bridge 'twixt five 
an' six o'clock; 

But these was only zephyr breaths beside an earth- 
quake shock. 

They jumbled me, they tumbled me, some several 

fellers deep, 
Until I gave up every sense an' feebly fell asleep; 
An' when I woke, and mildly asked if all my bones 

was there, 
No one contigious seemed to know, or specially to care ; 
But several fellers, with their face all black an' 

blue an' red, 
Jumped up an' down, a-wavin' han's, and shoutin', 

"We're ahead!" 



FARMER STEBBINS AT FOOTBALL 99 

'Now, who's ahead?" says I, when I a listenin' ear 

could find; 
"Whoever 'tis, here's one old fool that's several 

rods behind! 
Why are you studyin' carnage here? — what is this 

all about?" 
An' then they hollered, "Football, Dad! — we've 

gone an 1 cleaned 'em out!" 
Whereat I says, "If this is what you call a friendly 

game, 
Heaven shield me from your courtesies, an' help 

me dodge the same." 

Then everybody laughed an' joked, rejoicin' in 

such crimes, 
An' said, "Old man, the trouble is, you're 'way 

behind the times." 
An' then I said, "All right. I'll keep behind 'em, 

if you please — 
'Hind anything, to shield me from such goin's on 

as these; 
An' when I'm anxious suddenly from this world to 

escape, 
I'll go an' dance on dynamite, an' do it up in 

shape." 




FARMER STEBBINS AWHEEL 

I went to Brooklyn visitin' to see what I could 

see, 
An' twenty thousan' bicycles come rushin* after 

me; 
I couldn't even cross the road, or stop to look 

around, 
But some one's wheel was sure to want that very 

inch of ground; 
An* those at whom I shook my fist at scar in' of 

me thus 
Would call me names an* skitter off 'fore I could 

clinch the fuss. 

An' some of them was double-bent, with noses near 

the ground, 
As if their pocket-books was lost, an' hadn't yet been 

found ; 
An' some was steamin' 'long the road, in reg'lar 

engine-shape, 
As if they'd stole a dollar bill an 1 wanted to escape; 



FARMER STEBBINS AWHEEL 101 

An* some was wildly chewin' gum, industrious as 
could be, 

As if they'd lately took a job to gnaw a hemlock- 
tree; 

An' some had faces of despair, as if on frenzy's 

brink, 
An* some was men an' some was boys, an* some 

was girls — I think; 
An' some was ladies, lady-dressed an' lookin' fine 

an* neat 
As that same number of bouquets a-glidin' down 

the street; 
An* when a man about my size come ridin' with a 

dame, 
1 says, "If he can pump a wheel, then I can do 

the same." 

A little boy with turn-up nose an* unregenerate 
eye 

Had overheard my loud remarks, an' told the 
followin' lie: 

He says to me, "The cycles all have big improve- 
ments now, 

An' any one can ride 'em though he hasn't first 
learned how"; 

An' so I hired a stout machine from some one in 
a store, 

An' mounted on, an' started off the village to 
explore. 

8 



io2 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

The snub-nose boy he helped me up with all the 
strength he had, 

Then give a push, an' hollered out, "A pleasant 
journey, Dad!" 

An' so it was, a rod or two; when, like some livin' 
dunce, 

The lean an* slippery critter tried to go two ways 
at once; 

An', like a polertician - chap, I strove to do the 
same, 

An' felt the ground reverberate beneath my mas- 
sive frame. 

I looked around to find the boy; he wasn't no- 
where seen, 

An' I raised up the bicycle, a-feelin' rather green; 

An' then I said, "There's some mistake; I'll try 
the thing ag'in, 

An' it will probably behave, when I have broke it 
in." 

An' so I leaped upon its back, an' started off once 
more, 

An' promptly felt the earth ag'in, through all the 
clothes I wore. 



An' then I sort o' twisted 'round an' rose into a 

rage, 
An* started wildly in once more the critter to 

engage; 



FARMER STEBBINS AWHEEL 103 

An' hollered loud, so all the folks come runnin' 

'round to see, 
"You little beast, you think you'll get the upper 

han's of me? 
Perhaps you think a farmer bold hain't pluck to 

bring you down, 
That's broke some thirty colts to bit, an' half the 

mules in town!" 

An' then I strove for victory, with all my varied 
powers, 

For ten good minutes by the clock, but seemin'ly 
for hours; 

An' every time I made a move my mastery to 
display 

The little wretch would twist itself in some new- 
fashioned way; 

An' sometimes it would lie an' rest, as placid as 
could be. 

Then I'd be on my back, an' it a-grinnin' down at 
me; 

An' then 'twould rear up like a horse, an' weave 

an' twist awhile, 
An' I would stan' upon my head, in reg'lar circus 

style ; 
An' then 'twould kind o' paw the earth, an' wave 

its hinder wheel, 
An' I would turn a somerset and give a frenzied 

squeal ; 



104 



POEMS FOR 



Until at last I laid 

folks, 
My head upon a pa 

some spokes, 



YOUNG AMERICANS 
amongst a million laughin' 

vin'-stone, my legs between 



A , 1 . t • - m Y neck a slow an' painful 

An snouted, as I giv< J r 

iirt . ' .- --nose boy that said we didn't 

Bring me that snub- J 

have to learn! „ . , 

~ . .- .- x , first among a trustm people 

Give me the man that r r 

came ., , , .,««*.. 

An' set at laree th« < lang rOUS beESt Wlth S&fety 
i\ii set cUj large tms v 

for its name! , - 

T ,„ -. , ..- ch other in as good a shape, 

111 whip em with ea fe ^ 

A , /. , • ' • , metal bones has threshed the 
As this ere bunch of 

earth with me!" 




FARMER STEBBINS ON ROLLERS 

Rochester, January 4. 

Dear Cousin John: 

We got here safe — my worthy wife an' me — 

An' put up at James Sunnyhopes' — a pleasant place 

to be; 
An' Isabel, his oldest girl, is home from school just 

now, 
An' pets me with her manners all her young man 

will allow; 
An* his good wife has monstrous sweet an* culinary 

ways: 
It is a summery place to pass a few cold winter 

days. 

Besides, I've various cast-iron friends in different 
parts o' town, 

That's always glad to have me call whenever I 
come down; 

But t'other day, when 'mongst the same I under- 
took to roam, 

I could not find a single one that seemed to be to 
home! 



106 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

An' when I asked their whereabouts, the answer 

was, "I think, 
If you're a-goin' down that way, you'll find 'em at 

the Rink." 

I asked what night the Lyceum folks would hold 
their next debate — 

(I've sometimes gone an' helped 'em wield the 
scythe of Church an' State), 

An' if protracted meetin's now was holdin' any- 
where 

(I like to get my soul fed up with fresh celestial 
fare) ; 

Or when the next church social was; they'd give 
a knowin' wink, 

An' say, "I b'lieve there's nothin' now transpirin' 
but the Rink." 

"What is this 'Rink'?" I innocent inquired, that 
night at tea. 

"Oh, you must go," said Isabel, "this very night 
with me! 

And Mrs. Stebbins she must go, an' skate there 
with us, too!" 

My wife replied, "My dear, just please inform me 
when I do. 

But you two go." An' so we went, and saw a 
circus there, 

With which few sights I've ever struck will any- 
ways compare. 



FARMER STEBBINS ON ROLLERS 107 

It seems a good-sized meet in' -house had given up 

its pews 
(The church an' pastor had resigned, from spiritual 

blues), 
An' several acres of the floor was made a skat in' 

ground, 
Where folks of every shape an' size went skippin' 

round an* round; 
An' in the midst a big brass band was helpin' on 

the fun, 
An' everything was gay as sixteen weddin's joined 

in one. 

I've seen small insects crazy-like go circlin' through 
the air, 

An' wondered if they thought some time they'd 
maybe get somewhere; 

I've seen a million river-bugs go scootin' round an' 
round, 

An' wondered what 'twas all about, or what they'd 
lost or found; 

But men an* women, boys an' girls, upon a hard- 
wood floor, 

All whirlm' round like folks possessed, I never saw 
before. 

An' then it straight came back to me, the things 

I'd read an' heard 
About the rinks, and how their ways was wicked 

an' absurd; 



io8 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Td learned somewhere that skatin' wasn't a healthy- 
thing to do — 

But there was Dr. Saddlebags — his fam'ly with him, 
too! 

Td heard that 'twasn't a proper place for Christian 
folks to seek: — 

Old Deacon Perseverance Jinks flew past me like a 
streak! 

Then Sister Is'bel Sunnyhopes put on a pair o' 
skates, 

An' started off as if she'd run through all th' ad- 
joining States. 

My goodness! how that gal showed off! I never 
did opine 

That she could twist herself to look so charmin* an' 
so fine! 

And then a fellow that she knew took hold o' hands 
with her, 

A sort o' double crossways like, an* helped her, as 
it were. 

/ used to skate; an* 'twas a sport of which I once 

was fond: 
Why, I could write my autograph on Tompkins' 

saw-mill pond! 
Of course to slip on runners, that is one thing, one 

may say, 
An' movin' round on casters is a somewhat different 

way; 




"WHEN ALL TO ONCE THE WHEELS" 



FARMER STEBBINS ON ROLLERS 109 

But when the fun that fellow had came flashin' to 

my eye, 
I says, "I'm young again; by George, I'll skate 

once more or die!" 

A little boy a pair o' skates to fit my boots soon 
found — 

He had to put 'em on for me (I weigh three hun- 
dred pound); 

An* then I straightened up an* says, "Look here, 
you younger chaps, 

You think you're runnin' some'at past us older 
heads, perhaps: 

If this young lady here to me will trust awhile her 
fate, 

I'll go around a dozen times an' show you how to 
skate." 

She was a niceish, plump young gal, I'd noticed 

quite awhile, 
An' she reached out her hands with 'most too 

daughterly a smile; 
But off we pushed with might an' main; when all 

to once the wheels 
Departed sudden for the roof, an' took along my 

heels ; 
My head attacked the floor as if 'twas tryin' to get 

through, 
An' all the stars I ever saw arrived at once in view. 



no POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

'Twas sing'lar (as not quite unlike a saw-log there 

I lay) 
How many of the other folks was goin' that same 

way; 
They stumbled over me in one large animated 

heap, 
An* formed a pile o' legs an' arms not far from ten 

foot deep; 
But after they had all climbed off, in rather fierce 

surprise, 
I lay there like a saw-log still — considerin' how to 

rise. 

Then, dignified I rose, with hands upon my ample 
waist, 

An* then sat down again with large and very pain- 
ful haste; 

An' rose again; and started off to find a place to 
rest; 

Then skated on my stomach some, an* tore my 
meetin' vest; 

When Sister Sunnyhopes slid up as trim as trim 
could be, 

An* she an' her young fellow took compassionate 
charge o' me, 

Then after I'd got off the skates an' flung 'em out 

o' reach, 
I rose, while all grew hushed an' still, an' made the 

followin' speech: 



FARMER STEBBINS ON ROLLERS in 

"My friends, I've struck a small idea (an* struck 

it pretty square), 
Which physic'ly an' morally will some attention 

bear: 
Those who their balance can preserve are safe here 

any day, 
An' those who can't, I rather think, had better 

keep away." 

Then I limped out with very large unprecedented 

pains, 
An' hired a horse at liberal rates to draw home my 

remains ; 
An' lay abed three days, while wife laughed at an* 

nursed me well, 
An' used up all the arnica four drug-stores had to 

sell; 
An' when Miss Is'bel Sunnyhopes said, " Won't 

you skate once more?" 
I answered, "Not while I remain on this terrestrial 

shore." 




FARMER STEBBINS AT OCEAN GROVE 

Ocean Grove, June 30, 18 — 

Dear Cousin John: 

We got here safe — my worthy wife and me — 

And hired a tent here in the woods contiguous to 

the sea; 
We've harvested such means of grace as growed 

within our reach — 
We've been to several meetings here, and heard 

the Bishop preach; 
And everything went easy like until we took a 

whim — 
My wife and I — one breezy day, to take an ocean 

swim. 

We shouldn't have ventured on't, I think, if Sister 

Sunnyhopes 
Hadn't urged us over and again, and said she knew 

"the ropes," 
And told how soothing it would be "in ocean rills 

to lave," 
And "sport within the bounding surf," and "ride 

the crested wave"; 



FARMER STEBBINS AT OCEAN GROVE 113 

And so we went along with her — my timid wife and 

me — 
Two inland noodles, for our first acquaintance with 

the sea. 

They put me in a work-day rig, as usually is done — 
A wampus and short overalls all sewed up into 

one. 
I had to pull and tug and shrink to make the thing 

go 'round 
(You are aware my peaceful weight will crowd 

three hundred pound). 
They took my wig and laid it up — to keep it dry, 

they said — 
And strapped a straw-stack of a hat on my devoted 

head. 

You know my wife is long and slim — somewhat my 
opposite — 

And clothes that was not made for her is likely 
not to fit; 

But as we was we vent 'red in — my timid wife and 
me — 

And formed our first acquaintance with the incon- 
sistent sea. 

Miss Sunnyhopes she waded out a-looking nice and 

sweet 
(She'd had her dress made to the store, and trimmed 

from head to feet) ; 



ii 4 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

And I went next, and grabbed their rope just as 

she told me to, 
And wife came third, a-looking scared, scarce 

knowing what to do. 
Then Sister Sunnyhopes a smile of virgin sweetness 

gave, 
And said, "Now watch your chance, and jump — 

here comes a lovely wave!" 

I must have jumped, I rather think, the wrong 

time of the moon; 
At any rate the "lovely wave" occurred to me too 

soon ! 
It took me sudden, with a rude and unexpected 

shock ; 
I'd rather meet the stoutest pair of horns in all 

my flock! 
And then to top the circus out, and make the 

scene more fine, 
I tried to kick this "lovely wave," and let right go 

the line. 

On county fairs and 'lection - days, in walking 

through a crowd, 
I'm rather firm to jostle 'gainst — perhaps it makes 

me proud; 
But if it does, that wave just preached how sure- 

ness never pays, 
And seemed to say, "How small is man, no odds 

how much he weighs!" 



FARMER STEBBINS AT OCEAN GROVE 115 

It kicked and cuffed me all about, as if I'd been a 
straw ; 

With all the qualities they give an average mother- 
in-law! 

And then it fired me on the bank, quite thankful 

for my life, 
And looking 'round I give a gaze to find my faithful 

wife; 
But she had kind o' cut this wave with all the 

edge she had, 
And stood a-lookin' 'round for me, uncommon 

moist and sad; 
While Sister Sunnyhopes with smiles was looking 

sweet and gay, 
A-floating on her dainty back some several rods 

away ! 

Then all at once a brindle wave, uncommon broad 

and deep, 
Came thrashing down on wife and me, and flopped 

us in a heap! 
Heels over head — all in a bunch — my wife across 

of me, 
And I on some unlucky folks who happened there 

to be; 
My hat untied and floated off, and left my bald 

head bare — 
When I got out, if I'd have spoke, 'twould warmed 

up all the air! 



n6 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

We drank 'bout two-thirds of the sea — my gasping 

wife and I — 
While Sister S. still floated soft, a-gazing at the 

sky! 

We voted that we'd had enough, and got right out 
the way 

Before another wave arrived, and bid the sea good- 
day. 

We looked as like two drowned rats as ever such 
was called, 

With one of them a dumbed old fool and most com- 
pletely bald. 

But, like a woman true she says — my shivering 
wife to me — 

"We will not mind; there's others here looks just 
as bad as we." 

Now, Sister Sunnyhopes, by'm-by, came back into 

our tent, 
As sleek or sleeker than before, and asked us "Why 

we went?" 
Said I, "My dear good Sister S., please do not now 

pretend 
You did not see our voyage through, and mark its 

doleful end. 
If you would do the mermaid act, why such I'd 

have you be; 
But we're too old to take that part — my faithful 

wife and me; 



FARMER STEBBINS AT OCEAN GROVE 117 

"Some folks may be who ocean waves are fitted 

to command, 
But we've concluded we was built expressly for 

the land. 
And when I want amusement for an uncompleted 

day, 
I guess I'll go and take it in some good old-fashioned 

way; 
And will not stand upon my head 'fore all the 

folks that's there, 
And wildly wave my dumbed old feet in all the 

neighboring air!" 




FARMER STEBBINS AT THE BAT 

Brooklyn July 5. 

Dear Brother John: 

We got here safe, my good old wife an' me, 

An* then I strolled out to the Park, to see what I 

could see. 
Some fellows there was playin' ball — an* with a 

waggish smile 
One chap inquired of me if / wouldn't like to play 

awhile ; 
For I'd made some remarks about the way the 

game was run, 
An' maybe I'd take hold, he said, an' show em how 

'twas done. 

I used to play, some years ago, when youth still 

lingered near, 
Before three hundred pounds of meat impaired my 

runnin' gear; 
An' so I said, "All right, I'm in; I'll give the ball 

a whack, 
For I don't like to have old age invite me to stan' 

back"; 



FARMER STEBBINS AT THE BAT 119 

An* then I spoke up to'm an' said, with quite a 

limber tongue, 
"I'll show you how we used to play when your old 

dads was young/' 

"Of course you'll stan' up to the rules?" the wag- 
gish chap inquired; 

"An' will you pitch or catch?" Says I, "I'll catch 
if so desired." 

An' then they brought a muzzle out an' strapped 
it to my head, 

To keep my mug from gettin' scraped by some 
one's bat, they said. 

But I didn't mind; I says, "All right; just trim 
me up complete, 

Providin' you don't tie no wires aroun' my hands 
nor feet." 

But when I caught their pesky ball, I yelled out 
with a groan, 

"Good sakes alive! I didn't suppose you played it 
with a stone!" 

Then they all laughed, and says, "Of course this 
ain't no one-old-cat!" 

An' laughed again when I remarked, "I'm sensible 
of that; 

But when we used to play baseball we wouldn't 
have thought 'twas smart 

To pelt each other with a chunk of old King Pha- 
raoh's heart!" 



i2o POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

Then they all laughed again, an* said I'd better 

take the field; 
An' I remarked, "I'm used to that" (a fact quite 

unconcealed) ; 
An' so I toddled off, an' stood, without a word to 

say, 
Until "a hot ball," as they said, came boilin' down 

my way; 
It landed somewhere on my frame, uncommon hard 

an' square, 
An' I laid down, reached up my han's, an' wildly 

clasped it there. 

An' then they laughed an' cheered an' said, I'd 

caught it on the fly. 
11 1 caught it on my stomach, if I'm any judge," 

says I. 
An' then they laughed an' cheered some more, an* 

said, "Our side is in, 
An' it is our turn at the bat, an' your turn to 

begin." 
An' then I grasped the ball-club tight, an' says 

unto them all, 
"111 show you how to treat a hard an' unregenerate 

ball!" 

The fellow that propelled the thing wouldn't throw 

it square an' straight; 
He'd give a sort of cow-like kick, an' pitch it like 

a quoit; 



r 
c 
n 






c 
y 




FARMER STEBBINS AT THE BAT 121 

So when I struck, with my whole firm of muscle, 

brain, an' heart, 
The fierce blow found the ball an* club some several 

foot apart; 
An* leanin' up, an* strikin' 'gainst the atmosphere 

instead, 
Produced an unforseen result, an* stood me on my 

head. 

"Strike one!" the fellow that they call the " em- 
peror' ' loudly cried. 

"It's full as much as that," I says, a-perchin' on 
my side. 

"Play ball!" he shouted. An' I says, " It ain't so 
much like play 

As some things I have seen; but then, no matter; 
fire away!" 

An' so he fired; whereat the ball benumbed each 
finger's-end, 

Then cuffed my sufferin' ears, like some enraged 
maternal friend. 

"Foul!" shouted loud the emperor, then, in accents 

loud an' high. 
"You're right again; it's foul indeed, an' painful 

too," says I: 
An' then I thought, "I'll wipe that ball half-way 

out of existence, 
Or lay right down here an' expire, with mourners 

at a distance." 



122 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

An' straightenin' back, I gave the thing a self- 

benumbin' blow, 
An' sent it wobblin' through the air; an' then they 

shouted, "Go!" 

Now I was kind of turned around 'bout where I 
might belong, 

An' nimble as an elephant, I struck my bearin's 
wrong ; 

I stood the emperor on his head, I run the catcher 
down, 

I barked my waggish friend's left shin, before he 
turned me roun'; 

An' then he yelled, "Pick up your heels!" an' fool- 
bewildered quite, 

I stopped an' looked, an' said, "They're here! I've 
got em' on all right!" 

An' then they laughed an' cheered some more, an' 
said, "Go! make your base!" 

An' off I went, with quickened breath, an' heat- 
illumined face ; 

I gave no heed unto the world; but, thunderin' 
straight ahead, 

Produced an earthquake in that Park by my re- 
sistless tread; 

An' then I stubbed my off big toe, an' hadn't time 
to rise, 

An' rolled three-quarters of the way, to my base, 
and surprise. 



FARMER STEBBINS AT THE BAT 123 

"Out on a fly!" the emperor says, a-brushin ; off 

his sleeve. 
"Out on a bender, I should think!" I says, prepared 

to leave; 
"This game has too much earnestness to make it 

play for me; 
It's full of hardship for to do, however nice to 

see. 
The easiest way to play baseball, is just to sit an* 

tell 
How things you never could have done could be 
done twice as well." 

Then Sister Is'bel Sunnyhopes, to my intense sur- 
prise, 

Drove up an' took me in, with tears an* laughter 
in her eyes: 

"Miss Isabel," I humbly said, "it always seems to 
me, 

The bigger fool I make myself, the more you're 
there to see. 

I'll furnish you with candy all the rest your nat'ral 
life, 

If you won't pick this picnic up, an' take it to my 
wife." 




FARMER STEBBINS TOBOGGANS 

Rochester, February 28. 

Dear Cousin John: 

I got here safe, uncommonly alone, 

An' walked the streets in head-up style, quite willin* 

to be known; 
With all the triumph in my eyes of one who works 

an* waits, 
An' in my overcoat a pair of first-class roller-skates; 
An\ anxious out of glory's well a bucketful to 

drink, 
I never stopped until I reached that same old 

skating-rink. 

For ever since the fearful night* I wrote about 

before, 
I've swathed up safe an' practised sly upon my 

granary floor; 

* Referring to his troubles in the skating-rink, detailed 
on another page. 



FARMER STEBBINS TOBOGGANS 125 

I tumbled till it sagged the joists, but persevered 

an beat, 
An' skated like a critter born with casters on its 

feet ; 
An* now I says, " These swells will learn — what my 

best neighbors know — 
That, when he all unwinds himself, Old Stebbins 

ain't so slow." 

But when I reached that festive place, 'twas locked 

up, I declare, 
An* everything was desolate-like, an' not a soul was 

there ! 
While on the door a brand-new sign said: " Stand 

up for the Right! 
"Salvation Army holds this fort! Prayer-meeting 

every night !" 
I asked where all the skaters was; a passin' boy 

replied, 
"Rink's bu'st; they're all a-takin' in the new 

toboggan-slide!" 

"Ah me!" I said; "the same old game! It's 'one 

go all go sheep!' " 
Then started off to find the place as fast as I 

could creep; 
For, though I criticise my race, I can't help but 

belong ; 
An' soon I found myself within the same old giddy 

throng. 



i 2 6 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

But now they played at down an' up, instead of 

roun' and roun', 
An' skated somewhat like I did the night that I 

fell down. 

An' some was dressed in usual style — the same as 

any one — 
An' some had nightcaps, red an* blue, an* small 

bed-blankets on; 
An' some rode head-first on their chins, an' some 

sat stiff an' still, 
An' 'twasn't unlike the good old times we used to 

ride down-hill. 
(But all through life I've noticed, 'mongst girls, 

women, boys, an' men — 
This climbin' up to some large height, to be pushed 

down again!) 

As I thus mused, who should come up the easy, 
stair-cased slopes, 

But my old, young, true, treacherous friend, Miss 
Is'bel Sunnyhopes! 

Who's got me into more small scrapes than any 
girl on earth, 

An' always helped me out again, with tender- 
seasoned mirth; 

But everything looked safe like as she fluttered to 
my side, 

And said, "My dear friend! — is it you? — do come 
and have a slide!" 



FARMER STEBBINS TOBOGGANS 127 

She borrowed from a smart young man — a fellow 
that she knew — 

A han'-sled with the runners gone — just big enough 
for two; 

They'd rode in partnership, it seems; an' he gave 
up his place, 

With something that wasn't quite content upon 
his lengthenin' face; 

An' off we flew, with speed that shocked an* made 
me almost blind, 

Fast as that first tobogganer — the foeman of man- 
kind. 

We went straight down, an' clim' back safe; an* 

no mishap had known, 
If I had heard cold Reason say, "Let well enough 

alone." 
But Isabel's young fellow looked as sour as sour 

could be, 
An' just as if he'd like to make a mince-pie out of 

me; 
An 1 so I says, "I'll lengthen still this young man's 

underlip," 
And turned to Isabel an' said, "Let's take another 

trip." 

The second ride I gave a glance at two small boards 

that lay 
On edge to keep us sliders in the straight an' nar- 
row way; 



128 POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 

My eyes was sort of misted like, I lost or lent my 

head, 
An* grabbed these boards, supposin' them a portion 

of the sled; 
I stopped off; an' the sleigh went on, an* left me, 

in a trice, 
A-hangin' there with nothin' much betwixt me an* 

the ice. 

"Hold on!" "Let go!" "Climb up !" "Slide down !" 
I heard the people roar: 

I didn't know which one not to do, an* so I tried 
all four. 

I kicked an' grabbed an* dim' an* clawed, an* felt 
from foot to scalp 

As if I was in Switzerland a-hangin' to an 
Alp; 

My skates hopped out an* skittered off like boys 
let clear of school 

(First time they'd ever run without an old bald- 
headed fool)! 

My hat an* specs' skipped clean away, as if they'd 

caught the craze, 
An' been a-longin' for this chance for several nights 

and days; 
Three apples an' five dough-nuts, an* a purchased 

bakery bun, 
All tried the new toboggan-slide, an' went down, 

one by one; 




WITH SOBER FACE, BUT EYES UPON THE BROADEST 
KIND OF GRIN " 



FARMER STEBBINS TOBOGGANS 129 

An' as for me — as some girls say, in that " brook" 

song they sing, 
I "slipped an* slid an' gloomed an' glanced," an' 

grabbed at everything. 

An' finally I twisted round, head-foremost on my 

back, 
An' went down like a lightnin' train that's just run 

off the track, 
An' reached the bottom of the hill within a little 

while, 
Then rolled an' scooted somethin' like a quarter of 

a mile; 
An' when I gathered up, unhurt, but awful un- 

attired, 
I felt some like the waddin' of a shot-gun lately 

fired. 

Then Isabel came softly up, with Pity's soothin' 

charms, 
An' all of my lost property scooped in her han'some 

arms, 
An' re'lly hoped I wasn't hurt — and handed me a 

pin — 
With sober face, but eyes upon the broadest kind 

of grin; 
And then her fellow came, and made a show of 

helpin' me; 
But that 'ere underlip of his was short as short 

could be 



130 



POEMS FOR YOUNG AMERICANS 



An' then I turned, an' said "Good-bye" to all the 

people round; 
"My friends, I'm out of place again; on more than 

slippery ground! 
This goin' back upon their age is what no one 

should do; 
It's hard to play the fine young man an' be an old 

one too. 
Farewell to rinks an' slides while days aroun' me 

slip an' roll! 
I '1^ spend the spare time after this on my immortal 

soul." 



uu 



■55«OFCOI**fcj 



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